Come To Grief: Doubts
by Tiny Finch
Summary: Hermione hated the idea of being preyed upon. But, just maybe, somewhere deep in her gut she felt a jolt of excitement. Was it simply the thrill of being found attractive enough to pursue, regardless of his intentions?


**Come to Grief: Doubts  
**

Prologue

To say that there had been nothing would be a lie. A selfish lie she would tell herself quietly, in whispered tones, to protect herself from the uncomfortable truth peering out from the back of her mind. Hermione had always prided herself on control. If she reigned over her environment, nothing could surprise her and, the admittedly sometimes false, security that came from that had become irresistible. A drug. She was a busy body, a book worm, a control freak and more often than not she found herself thinking, _So what? Dislike me if you want but in the end I know what I'm doing. I know where I am going._

It had become a perverse point of pride for her, this ability to turn off most of the people around her. After all, why did she need them? She had tried so hard to find a way to communicate with those around her. Surely, she thought, the steps to making friends were easy. It was just a list she had to follow. However, people are not nearly as straightforward as books. Eventually, over the years, she gave up. She already had the only two friends that truly mattered. Harry and Ron were all she ever needed. While Ginny eventually found a place of camaraderie by Hermione's side, even this third, brilliant and brave, addition to her circle never managed to break the wall she had put up. Only Harry and Ron knew her fears, her insecurities. Only they had walked to the end of the earth and back, had been through so much horror, right by her side.

But… perhaps that was another lie she told herself simply because she couldn't bear to face the truth. Ron hadn't always been there. In fact, she told herself, _hating_ herself for allowing the thought to cross her mind; he had left, hadn't he? Right when she had needed him the most… when _Harry_ had needed him the most, he had walked out. The memory of frantically searching in the cold dark, desperately calling out, tears strangling her voice, leaves and dirt clinging to her hair- it stood out like blight marring a smooth surface. He had left them at their most vulnerable moment, at a loss for what to do next with the collective fear of Voldemort breathing heavily down their necks. He left them alone in that tent in the woods.

Sure, eventually he had returned. Having proven his friendship and loyalty to Harry, he'd been confident. That stupid, stupid confidence he always had. It had been part of the reason she'd stumbled into the realization that slowly, surely, she had come to love him. It had seeped in, trickling like a stream, slow and steady over the years. His honest, blunt face. The simplicity of his character anchored down with a good heart, a loyal and honest heart. All these things had taken root inside of her and, before she knew it, he had become precious to her. This was not lost on Ron. Which is why, after having saved Harry from the horocrux at the bottom of that frozen pond, he'd been so sure she'd eventually welcome him back.

She had hated him for it, but she had also loved him for it.

It might have been the fact that there was still so much to be done at the time, but she knew she needed him. When faced with seemingly insurmountable odds, the three of them knew they had to draw strength from each other. So she'd forgiven him and, as if knowing his debt, he had protected her. When the cruel and twisted hands of Bellatrix Lestrange had pinned her down, the fear on Ron's face, the horror that choked out his voice, seemed proof that she was his everything. She had embraced it and tried so hard to forget the feeling of abandonment that night. They had toiled and eventually conquered. Harry had gone beyond selflessness and had saved them in an act of such brave sacrifice.

The school had eventually rebuilt and she had gone back for her N.E.W.T.S. Now she found herself as a young twenty in London, chomping at the bit in her entry-level position at the Ministry of Magic. There had been so much to do; the task of rebuilding their lives had overridden everything else. So much so that Hermione had not taken the time to truly reflect on her relationship with Ron. She finished school and dove headfirst into an internship and eventually official employment with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Ron and Harry had invested all their time in training to become Aurors. They were often gone and she had work to do.

Hermione Granger was going to make a difference in the Ministry for the better and that required endless dedication and self-control.

Now, however, Hermione found herself in a similar situation from where it had all began. Much like the rhetorical stream of love, doubt and pain had seeped in slowly and surely, without her even realizing what it was. What she often wrote off as stress from studies or work was actually poisonous doubt that had taken root. Now she found herself before a broken bridge, Ron on the other side, with no idea how to find her way back over to him. She was completely at a loss. How do you pick up the pieces and glue them back together when you're not entirely sure where everything belonged in the first place? She berated herself, wallowed in the guilt of it all. She had cried and tried to reason with herself. Now, on more evenings than she wished to admit, Hermione found herself out on the fire escape of her small flat, indulging in the cigarettes she kept secret from even Harry and Ron.

Hermione took a final drag, the heat from the spent cigarette burning her lips. She neatly ground the butt out in the blue ashtray she kept hidden behind her potted marigolds. Casting a look around, she tucked the now extinguished butt into the small, lidded, trash bin. Tidy. As she did so she let the smoke rush out of her mouth and nostrils, flaring out like a dragon. She allowed herself a wry smile at the childish comparison before slipping back into melancholy. She would have to wait until she was inside to remove the smell of cigarette smoke from her clothing with a flick of her wand. Despite the number of small, magical neighborhoods clustered around the Ministry in London, Hermione had chosen a flat in a neighborhood full of muggles. It was comfortable and nostalgic, something she desperately needed considering that she was still dealing with the ramifications of obliterating her parents memory.

Hermione flinched.

Some things a person can never take back, no matter how desperately she may want to.

Her parents had become a subject she rarely allowed herself time to dwell on. Too painful. The thought brought tears to the corners of her eyes. It was true. There was no undoing what she had done, not her parents, not the gap she had allowed to grow between her heart and Ron's… and not George Weasley. Unlike with Ron, Hermione had long been aware of the brewing tension between herself and the sly twin. She realized with dread that, with Ron, she had been going through the motions. There were dinners at the Weasley's and weekends out as a family along with Harry. Occasionally there was a visit from Luna Lovegood, who seemed to breeze in and out along with the change of weather. More trips than she could count to Diagon Alley and evenings waiting for Ron at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, where Ron helped George in between jobs as an Auror.

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes…

The place had always annoyed her. It was partly because pranks violated her sense of the rules… also because in some corner of her mind she was insanely jealous of the cleverness of it all. George and Fred Weasley, while never caring much for school and occasionally lacking in common sense, were for the most part sharper than anyone else she had ever met. Often their creations would leave her with eyebrows raise and lips slightly apart in surprise. How did they think of these things? How did these cheeky and flirtatious boys, whose energy was barely contained by the bodies that housed them, harness the dedication to test and experiment with their creations night after night? Failures rolled of their backs, never deterring their ambition. Chagrined, she had to admire it.

Of course, after the final battle at Hogwarts and Fred's tragic death, George had changed. Gone was the joyful abandon with which he had always approached the world around him. His face lost its soft youthfulness and was instead replaced with the hard lines of a haunted man. His recovery had been a long one. The mischievous boy in him only seemed to come out at his joke shop, an institution he had crafted into a monument in honor of Fred's memory. Once always so loud and thriving on the energy of those around him, George had become a man of very few words. Now, when away from his clever craft, it was as if he were a benign ghost, blending into the environment. But he was always there, never far from his family- never far from Hermione.

When had she first felt his eyes on her back? The weight of his heavy stare was hard to ignore and more often than not at these family gatherings, his eyes would wander their way over to the graceful curve of her neck, or the dimples that capped her smile. Here is where they would often remain for most of the evening. These long and heavy looks eventually evolved into smooth words, as George would work a subtle joke into conversation with the intention of only Hermione truly catching on. These moments would be followed a quick glance and a small smirk. Hermione would bite her lip to keep a smile from spreading.

Ginny was no fool and, every now and then, Hermione knew she was aware of these discreet exchanges. The petite redhead would quickly look to the side, her brows knitted together in concern. The anxiety in Hermione's gut continued to rise and now, more than ever, felt tinged with guilt.

She wasn't sure what to make of these small moments. She was still so completely confused and lost about where she now stood with Ron. But one thing was without doubt; George was beginning to stir something inside of her. It was a feeling that made her feel more exposed than she had ever felt in her entire life. The shield that in many cases she often still used between herself and the members of this family she had found herself a part of, it ceased to exist when George poured his undivided attention her way. His eyes, while always tinged with sadness, where still clever and clear. Brown ridged with honey colored eyelashes. When those eyes fell on her she seemed to read, _Look at me and see_.

See what?

This perplexed her further. Why now? Throughout all of the years that she had known the Weasleys, she had always felt like the only interest she offered to the twins was as a target. They would often spar as the twins attempted to get a rise from the straight-laced bookworm. Hermione would shoot down their attempts with carefully crafted venom, knowing that even as she did so she was satisfying their urge to poke fun. The two of them never seemed to tire of it and Hermione would grit her teeth, ink stained fingers gripping the pages of her book tightly until the paper started to crease. Perhaps it was because she rarely fell for their pranks and this made her a challenge. _Let's see if we can get Hermione Granger to be at a loss for words… or, even better, let's make her blush._

Was he lonely? George was by no means an ugly man, and Hermione had no trouble imagining that he could woo home a girl with little difficulty. At this thought she felt a sickening splash of fear wash over her. What if he was just bored? What if this was simply another game to him as he desperately tried to fill the void that Fred had left? It was a horrible thought and Hermione hated the idea of being preyed upon… right? At least on principle she found it pathetic and dishonest. But, just maybe, somewhere deep in her gut she felt a jolt of excitement. Was it simply the thrill of being found attractive enough to pursue, regardless of his intentions? This idea left her feeling foolish.

Despite Hermione's endless musings and firm reprimands to herself to stop this stupidity, the attraction she felt towards him continued to grow stronger.

_Foolishness._

Eventually there came small touches, a gentle pat on the shoulder during farewells or the soft pads of his fingers running across her wrist as he passed in the hallway. These tiny, seemingly innocent embraces left her breathless, a taut bubble of excitement building deep in her chest. She could feel a heat grow inside of her at these moments, but it was quickly soured by shame. This shame deprived her of sleep. She was slipping out of the guidelines she had set for herself. Even if she could not find a way back to the love she had felt for Ron, indulging in this desire for his brother was not acceptable.

This evening it had come to a head and she had walked out on dinner, leaving Ron and Harry looking concerned as she fumbled about blaming a headache for her early departure. Ginny noticed the blush heating Hermione's ears and she pressed her lips into firm line, disapproval evident on her face. Hermione couldn't bear to look her in the eye. No one, except Ginny, seemed to notice that Hermione's trip to fetch Mrs. Weasley's expertly crafted Gypsy Tart from the kitchen took longer than it should have. Or, amazingly, that George had been conspicuously missing from the table.

When had they ever been alone? Hermione couldn't recall. A chill flashed across her forehead and she tried to distract herself by manually cutting the tart into slices. No need for magic when she had two capable hands, right?

"One of mum's tarts, eh? I don't have much of a sweet tooth anymore."

His voice startled her and she quickly set the knife down. She swallowed.

"Your mother really does make the best desserts. Even if I don't go for sweets much, I always have some." Hermione forced a smile, cringing at the forced small talk. Awkward.

A small smile quickly moved his lips as he nodded slightly. The silence stretched between them, becoming poignant with something Hermione did not care to place. Hands shaking slightly, she gathered up the dessert plates and counted the small delicate silver forks, mermaids expertly engraved into the handles. Mrs. Weasley had gathered many small treasures tucked here and there, made all the more precious in their quiet, everyday use. Having acquired everything she had come to the kitchen for, she gathered plates and forks in one hand, tart in the other, and made to leave.

A strong masculine arm blocked her path of travel, sturdily placed on the counter top. She looked at the long fingers and clean short fingernails as she tried to ignore how very close he was. She could smell him, the musk of his cologne filling her nostrils, making her slightly dizzy. He was standing close enough for Hermione to feel his heat radiating over to her, the cotton of his trousers brushing against the exposed skin of her legs. Hands full, Hermione was trapped, the small of her back pressing against the counter's edge as George fenced her in.

She could feel his breath tickle her nose.

Everything became so still and quiet in their corner of the house that she could hear water dripping from the faucet.

"George…" she whispered, trying to force a warning tone into her shaking voice.

Saying nothing, he leaned forward. She could've counted his eye leashes one by one. She made eye contact. Completely lost in his warm brown irises, she watched him descend upon her and jumped slightly as his lips lightly brushed against hers. So gentle. She could feel herself breathing him in. He went in deeper; coaxing her mouth open with firm, smooth lips. Goose flesh rose up on her arms. Her grip on the plates began to slip.

George let out a warm, shaking breath and, encouraged, ran his warm tongue along her upper lip.

Hermione felt something drop and the sudden crash of porcelain breaking against the floor shook them both out of the heady trance they were in. It was as if a cold bucket of water had been dumped over her head and all of the logic and common sense she had suspended came rushing back. Horrified, she threw the tart to counter and fled.

Now, hours later, Hermione stood and gathered the blanket she'd been sitting on. With secret cigarettes tucked carefully under one arm, she entered her flat. It was well past 1 AM and sleep still wouldn't come. She could feel her ears burning as she remembered the evening's events. God, what was she thinking?

George Weasley. Had she ever been kissed like that?

Safely indoors, she whisked the smoke out of her clothes and hair, returning her wand to its place in the ancient oak beside drawer. She'd actually gotten it as a hand-me-down from Ron's mother. Excellent, more guilt. For a moment Hermione contemplated brewing a small batch of potion to help her sleep. Then she remembered she was low on supplies. With a sigh, Hermione kneaded her temples. A trip to Diagon Alley was due. Resigned to a long night, Hermione brewed a cup of tea and tucked herself into bed.

Quiet. 3 AM.

Hermione had started to drift, sleep fuzzing out the features of her dark bedroom when suddenly a loud thump set her straight up in bed. Startled, she peered about in the moonlight filtering in through the window.

Again. Loud, but this time she could make out that it was someone knocking.

Apprehensive, Hermione gathered herself up from bed and slowly made her way through the flat. She paused at the front door, unsure if she should even peer though the spyglass.

"Hermione." A muffled, masculine, and distinctly Weasley voice came through the door.

Ron? He was back already?

Perplexed, she opened the door quickly. Much to her surprise, Hermione discovered George leaning against the door frame. The second the door was open he came through and before Hermione could say anything, or think of anything, his lips were on her. Swept away by the surprise of it all, Hermione clung to the sleeves of his shirt as one strong hand held the back of her head in place. The other wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She could taste the fire whiskey on his tongue and the smell of it filled her senses.

"Wait!" She gasped, breaking away from the kiss as George gave the door a kick with the back of his foot.

Nothing doing. George quickly caught her mouth again and dove in headfirst. The aggressiveness of the kiss left her gasping for breath as he devoured her. His soft, wet tongue brushed against hers. He tugged on her bottom lip with his teeth. Drink had made him hungry… and rough. Groaning, Hermione tried to pull away, pushing against his chest with her hands. Breathing heavily, George brought her to the floor.

Hard.

"George! Stop this!" The sheer panic in her voice finally gave him pause.

They laid there in the dark, George over top of her, both breathing heavily. He sat back slightly and brought a hand up to her face, running the soft pads of his fingers gently over her lips.

"S'rry", he murmured in a quiet, diminished voice.

He didn't get up.

Hermione was frightened, but underneath the panic and shock of it all, arousal started to pool down deep in her body. She wanted to be devoured. She wanted George to be the wolf that left her screaming for mercy. She simply had to allow herself.

After all, to say that there had been nothing would be a lie.

She let out a shuddering breath as his warm fingers traveled down from her lips, over her chin. They traced delicately down the slope of her neck and to the gentle swell of her breasts. His hand cupped her, a soft and gentle squeeze through the fabric of her night cami.

"Ah…" Hermione bit her lip.

"Is it really so bad?" he asked through the darkness of her living room.

His thumb lightly swept over her quickly hardening nipple and excitement shot straight down into her groin. She was panting, the hot breath leaving her through open mouth and flared nostrils. Hermione felt sweat slowly tickle down into the hair over her temple. She wasn't so sure she could control this anymore. The resolve was becoming threadbare and, face trembling, she push Ron's image out of her mind's eye.

"We've both wanted this… Please," George bent down, whispering into her ear.

This moment stretched out, growing long with only their heavy breathing filling the space between them. Quivering, Hermione took a deep breath and slowly slid her hands away from his chest, leaving the cloth of his shirt wrinkled and damp from the sweat of her palms.

Permission granted.

He made a small noise, soft, as he pressed a deep kiss on her neck. She gasped as he sucked and nipped his way down her throat. His hands greedily slipped under her top, fingers drinking in the soft flesh of her waist.

"God- Ah!" Hermione cried out as his thumbs gently flicked over her nipples, sending a jolt straight down into her groin.

He chuckled as he suddenly leaned back, pulling his shirt up and over his head. His pale skin shone in the dim light and Hermione took in the sight of his slender frame. He was still quite thin with lean muscle lining his abdomen and chest, but he was finally healthy again. She drifted her eyes across the contours of his neck and shoulders. Biceps tightened as he reached down for her, working his fingers around the waistline of her shorts.

"I'm not God," he smirked. "But thanks for the compliment."

Before she could even reply, George tugged the fabric down. Exposed, Hermione covered her face as a shudder shot through her spine. Warm fingers snaked between her thighs, causing her to jump at the contact. George gently inserted a finger, slowing pumping it in and out. Hermione bit her lip, too proud to let a moan escape- until he slipped in a second while rolling his thumb against her clit. Swallowing, she ran her hands up into her hair, bucking her hips up to meet his fingers. She watched though heavy lids as George reached with his other hand down to his own growing need, palming his length through his pants.

"Are you ready, Granger?" he asked, slowly bringing the zipper down.

Hermione gasped, absorbed in the sight as he pulled himself out, stroking the hard, straining flesh. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, glistening. He was working them both, grunting with each thrust of his hands.

"Y-yes," she breathed, trembling in anticipation.

He pulled his fingers away.

"Then, come here."

He didn't need to ask twice. Arousal pushed Hermione past her breaking point and she came at him, taking his mouth in a hungry kiss. Tongues wrestled as George fumbled with the rest of his pants, breathing heavily. She pushed him against the door of her flat, straddling his waist. He reached down and positioned himself, ready.

Without a second thought, she took him in to the hilt.

"Fuck!" George buried his face into her neck.

"I ca- ah-can't believe we're doing this," Hermione said, gritting her teeth as he stretched her to the limit.

" 'Bout fucking ti-," George cut himself off with a deep, growling groan.

George dug his fingertips into her hips, lifting her up and then bringing her down hard, grinding against her hips. They worked up a rhythm; skin slicking against skin as Hermione let her voice loose. Her tiny apartment filled with the explicit sounds of their hips meeting together with each thrust. George breathlessly cursed into her hair, holding onto her tightly.

It had been ages since her last time and it didn't take Hermione long to reach her climax. It swelled up inside of her and came crashing down, reducing her to a shuddering, whimpering mess. She rode out her orgasm, crying out as George's pace became frenzied.

"Me too. I'm gonna-," George clung to her desperately as he seized up, throbbing into her as he released.

Exhausted, Hermione slumped against him as sweat beaded on her forehead. They listened to each other breath, neither willing to move. Hermione suddenly became aware of the clock. It ticked softly, gently reminding her of the reality of the world outside.

She tried to put it out of her mind.

* * *

Back in the summer after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione left her parents home and moved in with Ron and the Weasleys. The Burrow had been rebuilt and Mr. Weasley created a small pond by the garden, lining it with large willow trees. The surrounding nature settled in quickly and it soon became a favorite spot for a tawny owl, serving as a sentinel over the frogs and dragonflies that quietly made the peaceful pond their home. It became a beautiful and verdant spot, perfect for lazy afternoons.

It was here that they buried Fred. And it was here that George spent his days, lost.

They gathered for morning tea in the kitchen.

"Mum… he's been out there for days. Did he even come inside last night?"

Ginny worried her mug, peering through the morning sunshine that came streaming in from the window. She sat down at the table, looking at the two women present. Hermione watched dust mites dance on the air, not wanting to look at the expression on Mrs. Weasley's face. She plucked at the tea cozy. The heat from the pot stung her fingertips.

"He did, but just for a while," Mrs. Weasley sighed. "He isn't sleeping."

"None of us are sleeping," Ginny said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He just keeps roaming the house- it's like we're being haunted what with him banging and creaking around all bloody night. When he isn't skulking about in here, he's out there. It's been three months, Mum. This is becoming a serious problem."

"You think I don't know this? He lost _Fred. _Can anyone blame him?" Mrs. Weasley snapped. The strain of it all was showing, settling as deep lines creasing around her eyes.

"Christ," Ginny hissed. "We _all_ lost Fred. All of us!"

Ginny slammed her mug down onto table and stood. She looked as if she were about to add more but stopped, grief twisting her face. With a sob she fled. Hermione watched the tail of her bathrobe whip around the corner before cradling her head in her hands. She was just so very, very tired. Everyone living in the house was frayed, the stress from grieving filling every nook and cranny. There was no escaping it. The summer had turned into an excruciating wait, a countdown until news of the school's reopening would finally reach her.

Mrs. Weasley cried softly into her handkerchief. Hermione pressed her mouth into a tight line. What could she say? She didn't think there were any words of comfort she could say that hadn't already been said over and over. Instead, sighing deeply, she reached across the table and took her hand. The older woman's hand accepted the embrace, pressing gently with her fingers. They sat there in silence, morning bird song drifting in through the window.

"Molly."

They both looked up to see Arthur Weasley entering the kitchen. He'd lost more hair and the effects of stress and age had begun to bleach the ginger hair at his temples.

"Dear, tea's on." They exchanged a tired, sad smile. Mr. Weasley squeezed his wife's shoulder. Retrieving a mug, he looked over his shoulder at Hermione. It was a pointed look and Hermione didn't need a second hint.

"I'm going to step outside. Some fresh air will do me good. Was Ron still asleep when you were upstairs?" she asked, gathering her mug and scraping her chair against the stone floor as she stood.

"No, both Ron and Harry are still dead to the world." He said, giving her a grateful smile.

"I see."

The sun was bright as she stepped outside of the kitchen door. It closed with a dull thud behind her, the old wood and iron bindings vibrating slightly. The heat of the day had yet to rise so the air was fresh. The smell of dew clung to the ground and it made Hermione smile. She had decided to appreciate the small things during all of this sadness. Ron was taking Fred's death hard. Truth be told, everyone was… even Hermione. She couldn't decide if it was Fred's death itself or the effect it was having on everyone that she loved. Perhaps it was a bit of both. Hermione hated to see Ron cry.

There was a warm spot on the kitchen step so she settled herself in, resting her back against the door. Her tea had gone lukewarm, which was fine. A hot and sluggish August was drawing to a close and she was ready for autumn to come. She stared pensively at the line of ants quietly marching by her toes.

How many had died? It had been slow and nefarious, but before she even knew it, Hermione had begun to count herself amongst the dead. But- perhaps that was a tad melodramatic. She should be grateful to be alive. However, it was hard when she saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley grieve for their son. It made her think of her own parents. Things hadn't snapped back to the way she had wanted. After bringing them home from hiding in Australia, things had turned sour. Yes, she had performed the Memory Charm to protect them… but the manipulation involved had damaged their relationship. What could she have done? Saving their lives had meant breaking their trust. It had uprooted them from their lives and careers. It stung.

As far as they were concerned, their daughter had always been a bit of an enigma, but in the aftermath of it all she had become something far more intimidating. No. She was being unfair. They had truly tried their best. _It was understandable_, they would say. _You did it out of love… but shouldn't you have at least said something before doing something so drastic- Oh, Dear, please don't cry. _Eventually she had left home. Hermione had always been gone often because of school. This, she told them, was no different. There was still much more work to be done and she was needed. Was this true? She didn't know and she didn't care. Unable to bear the guilt, Hermione had run away. The problems would fester if she continued to do nothing, but at this point she didn't have the strength left to acknowledge the quiet voice of reason.

Raised voices broke Hermione from her thoughts.

"What are you suggesting? Honestly, Arthur!"

"Now, Molly, calm down."

"Don't you dare 'Now, Molly' me. Do you think I'm a damn fool?"

"No, I don't… It's just that he isn't getting any better. Something needs to be done."

"_We are not sending him to St. Mungo's!"_

Mrs. Wesley's voice came out as a vicious whisper. Hermione swallowed hard, now wishing she had moved further away from the kitchen. Wood clattered to the ground. A chair? The sound of china crashed against the door, making Hermione jump to her feet, tripping. Had Mrs. Weasley thrown the teapot? Nervous, Hermione retreated a couple of steps, the tea from her mug splashing against her pant leg.

"George isn't some loony we can just ship off. He is our son!"

"It is _because_ he is our son that I think we should. He needs help, and it has gotten to the point where I'm not sure we can help him like this." Arthur Weasley's voice sounded tired, pleading.

There was a short pause. He continued.

"Dearest, we have all reached our breaking point. Ginny is a mess, crying and snapping at the slightest word. Ron has been bottling up his emotions; I'm worried that he's going to implode at any minute. Percy and the others have been avoiding visiting. Everyone in this house is exhausted. How on earth can we help him like this?"

"We're his family… We can fix him just by being there for him."

"How are we _helping_ him, hm? Tell me. As far as I can tell he is continuing to look more and more haggard. He's lost so much weight… I just-," his voice choked. "What about us? Shouldn't we be able to help ourselves too?"

"He's grieving- we are _all_ grieving. This doesn't justify sending him off."

"We're not carting him off, like he's disposable. No- listen to me, Molly. That is not what this is. They can provide support that maybe we just can't at this point. It's not like it would be forever... He just needs to find his feet again with some intervention."

"Arthur… I have already lost one son. I will not lose another! He stays and this is the end of it."

"Molly!"

"This is the end of it!" her voice came out as a near shriek. "No- don't you dare lay a finger on me. Unbelievable!"

A door slammed and suddenly everything went quiet. Hermione let out a shaking breath, feeling sick to her stomach. She really wished she hadn't overheard all of that. This family had surrounded her for years, to the point that she had become a part of it. But this… it was a side of the Weasleys that months of agony had brought out. That had been a conversation Hermione had no place in and having eavesdropped fill her with shame.

Tears began to sting the corners of her eyes. _Christ, no more. I can't handle anymore of this. I feel so sic-_

She cried out in surprise, dropping her mug. He was standing right there, looking at her. George. Insomnia had truly done a number on his face. Pale, dull skin clung to now overly prominent cheekbones. The bags beneath his eyes had taken on a purplish hue, tinged with yellow. The very image of death stood in front of her wearing a faded striped tee and jeans. He was barefoot. Had he been there for the entire conversation?

Hermione worried her lip.

"G-Good morning," she said, cursing to herself for inadvertently giving the kitchen door an awkward, sideways glance.

Silence. George stood there, regarding her with distant eyes through his shaggy ginger hair. Slowly, he looked towards the door. She began to wonder if she should say something, anything really, to break the awful quiet. Then, right as she was about to open her mouth, he laughed… a bitter, hoarse laugh that shook his boney shoulders. Hermione grimaced.

"George," she said, taking a tentative step forward.

As if struck, George quickly turned away from her. She froze.

"Don't bother."

He walked away from the house, back to Fred's grave. Hermione was left standing there, feeling drained. She looked down at the broken mug at her feet and realized that she didn't have the energy to pull out her wand to repair it. She sat back down on the kitchen step and turned her face up to the sky, fighting tears. The rest of the morning passed as she let the sun soak into her face and arms. This, at least, was a small thing, and she was going to do her damned best to enjoy it.

* * *

Well, I hope it was an enjoyable read. I am working on turning this into a much longer story involving multiple characters. Reviews much appreciated!

-Tiny Finch


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